


The Last Enemy

by Prochytes



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Day in the Master’s Cardiff. Gwen Cooper is still Gwen Cooper. She doesn’t have much time to work out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for TW down to “Children of Earth” and for DW “The Sound of Drums”, “Last of the Time Lords”, “The Stolen Earth”, “Journey’s End” , and “The End of Time”. This fic contains angst, pregnancy-related body horror, and violence. Originally posted on LJ in 2011.

1\. The Enemy of the World.

 

It didn’t work on cats. The ebony ripple that had pulsed across the road two streets (eighty-seven heartbeats) back was still a feline. Ears flat against its head; eyes staring. Kitty couldn’t know what had just pissed all over the planet.

 

No hive-mind. The one she had pistol-whipped outside Asda (four streets, nine hundred and sixty-three heartbeats) had looked – briefly – just as surprised to see her as... (don’t remember, mustn’t remember, hold the thought by the rim so it can’t scald) as the first one. They weren’t sharing information telepathically.  

 

 He didn’t know she was coming, and this was still her town. Alien mastermind, my arse; you could live in Cardiff for twenty years and still not have a bloody clue what to do there of a Friday night. If she got the drop on him, she could take him.

 

How many times, though? Three? Ten? A hundred? Cardiff wasn’t a battlefield, now. It was a video-game, and not one where she got to be the shooter. Gwen Cooper had become the obstacle; the adversary; the poorly pixelated mook. Every time she won, he could restart the level. Harold Saxon only had to win the once.

 

And so Gwen Cooper ran for her life through the December dark (still fast, still very fast – the first trimester hadn’t yet got around to pilfering her pace), measuring out the streets of her city in footfalls and prodigal heartbeats, twisting her options like a blackjack player, and not making it up as she went along. Captain Jack Harkness had made it up as he went along, and hadn’t that ended well for everyone? Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Jack, you had to go and bolt to the stars like the cheap little hustler you always were. Left our town with an exhausted, pregnant basket case for a champion.

 

Salt at the corners of her mouth. She had been crying, probably for several minutes, and had not noticed. It wasn’t as though tears could accomplish anything. Even if Gwen Cooper was the last thing on Earth that still remembered how to weep.

 

***

 

In terms of security, Agent Johnson had done the Hub the best possible favour by blowing it up. There were plenty of Tosh-isms you could apply to a new building that wouldn’t wash for a Victorian sewer.

 

Hub 2.0 was a non-descript office complex in the suburbs, compared to which UNIT’s gaff at Mount Snowdon enjoyed all the defensive qualities of a Travelodge. The hatch Gwen had just slammed shut behind her was constructed out of bonded polycarbide. Nothing said you meant business for a certain sort of audience like flaying a Dalek to make your doors.

 

Gwen had given her new staff the day off on Christmas Eve. She blessed her decision not to be a Scrooge, now that she had seen who was playing all the ghosts. No need to hunt his shadows through the Hub - at least, not yet. And so she turned her attention to understanding how that double-hearted bastard had screwed them all. Again.

 

It had started in London. The Smoke was Gwen’s default assumption as the origin point of epic cluster-fuck, but in this case the Hub’s instruments confirmed it: the transforming wave had propagated from there. The effect, as she had feared, was global. The Beeb, CNN, Al Jazeera... all presented the same face: Harold Saxon, admiring himself in the looking-glass he had fashioned from the world. A world where everyone she saw was the Master.

 

Everyone except Gwen Cooper.

 

There had to be a reason she had escaped. Blood-type? Was he using Sycorax tech? No chance. Gwen knew she was O+. There might be other survivors (Gwen set her mouth against that word, and ploughed on), but they definitely did not number one in three.

 

Had she been shielded, somehow, from the wave? The defence systems installed in her new house were almost as paranoid as those of the rebuilt Hub. But that wouldn’t work either. Torchwood’s defences hadn’t saved...

 

 _Rhys’s features a blur as the change took him. His body collapsing in upon itself, like curls of melting butter in a pan. The sag and the crease of his sloughing clothes. (On the TV screen, Peggy Mitchell told someone that she was Old East End, and_ _he didn’t know who he was dealing with.)_

 

 _Saxon was a slight, lithe man, not that much bigger than herself. The expression of astonishment as he turned and saw her had barely begun to brighten into glee before she slammed the vase into his skull. The blow that should have felled a bloke his size only staggered him (they’re tougher than us, they’re stronger than us, they’re_ better _than us_ – _never forget your Institute was founded to fight a god) but his feet tangled in the trailing trouser-legs and she struck again and he tried to raise his arm and she struck again and he was falling, Rhys who was Harold Saxon who was the Master was falling like the stale water and the petals and the blood..._

 

 Gwen grabbed at a table for support, until the heaving nausea should subside. I am sick because I am a pregnant woman, she told herself, taxed beyond what is appropriate to her condition. I am not sick because I am weak.

 

Gwen Cooper, and her Circus of Self-Deceptions. I really ought to take that on the road.

 

2\. The Enemy Within.

 

She had just lifted her head again when the central console flared into life.

 

“Gwen? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

 

Even under normal circumstances, Gwen tended to think that, of all the improbably good-looking people with whom it had been her professional lot to associate, Martha Jones was among the most improbably good-looking. Right now, Martha’s face, squinting out at Gwen from the VDU, could easily qualify as the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It took all her self-control not to kiss the monitor.

 

“Martha! Are you ever a sight for sore eyes...”

 

“Likewise. What’s Torchwood’s status?”

 

Gwen sighed. “Torchwood is me. None of my staff has reported in. I’m afraid I have to assume that they’ve been turned. Yourself?”

 

“Much the same.” Martha’s voice was carefully controlled. “I bludgeoned my husband of three months and Master of three seconds into unconsciousness with a rifle butt. I’ve had better days.” Her eyes searched Gwen’s face. “Rhys?”

 

Gwen bit her lip.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“So am I.” Gwen cleared her throat. “Have you been able to raise any of the others on the Subwave Network?”

 

“No. You’re the first.”

 

“Martha... is _he_ here?”

 

“I... I don’t know. I hope so. He hasn’t been answering his ‘phone.” Martha looked away for a moment. “We both know that he doesn’t always come when he’s needed.”

 

Gwen nodded, trying not to think about the pit of despair that had opened up for her after the 456, raw and gaping and ugly as the hole torn out of Roald Dahl Plass. The fear that he would never visit Earth again. Or, worse, that he _would_ return, and the only question she would see for humanity in those ancient eyes was the one she had once thrown at Jack: _What’s the fucking point of you?_ She blinked it away.

 

“Never mind. You beat Harold Saxon before, Martha. There’s nothing to stop us from doing it again. I’ll dig deep into what remains of our treasure-chest. See if Torchwood has anything left to ruin his day.”

 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m hoping to do the same with the Black Archive. It’ll be crawling with Saxon, but I should still be able to sneak through.”

 

“Good girl.”

 

“Gwen... I hate to mention this, but we should also consider our final options.”

 

“I hope this isn’t heading where I think it is...”

 

“Emergency Protocol One. You got the Manipulator up and running again, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes, but...”

 

“I really hope that we can beat him. But if we can’t, there’s the good of the Universe to consider. There might come a point where it makes sense to open the Rift. Swallow the Earth before his infection spreads.”

 

“I understand why you say that, Martha. You always were the one for the bigger picture; that’s why you wound up with the Osterhagen Key. But me... I’m an Earth girl, through and through. My oath is to this planet, not the Universe. If you come here trying to open the Rift, you’ll have to go through me.”

 

“I don’t think either of us wants to find out if you could stop me, Gwen.”

 

Gwen held Martha’s gaze for several seconds, before breaking into a pensive smile. “Look at us. The last two women on Earth, maybe, and we’re already at each other’s throats. Cainette and... er...”

 

“Abelline?”

 

“Exactly. Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”

 

“Agreed. Godspeed, Gwen, and stay in touch.”

 

“Godspeed.”

 

***

 

The expected contact with the enemy came shortly afterwards. When you’ve got that many pairs of feet, you don’t let the grass grow beneath them.  

 

He routed the incoming call via the Number Ten hotline, because he could. Gwen looked at the winking light on her desk for a long moment, and swallowed. She set the Hub’s monitoring software to analyse the transmission for subliminals ( _he always was a hypnotist_ ). Only then did she pick up the ‘phone.

 

“This is Gwen Cooper, of the Torchwood Institute.” _Oh, what the fuck. Might as well go for broke._ “Harold Saxon, we demand your immediate and unconditional surrender.”

 

“Oh my. PC Cooper has me bang to rights. I’ll come quietly, Constable. Honest. But the question is: with seven billion of me and one of you, how do you plan on taking me into custody?”

 

“I’m throwing you a lifeline, Saxon.” Gwen stared into space, inventing feverishly. “Why do you think you’re talking to me and not to Jack? We knew the original you would turn up in London. Right now, Jack’s in position, five minutes’ walk from where you’re standing. The device strapped beneath his coat has the explosive potential of a ten megaton nuclear bomb. We both know he could walk away from that. So, the real question, Harold, is: could you?”

 

 For a giddy moment, Gwen dared to hope that he had bought it. Then her shoulders slumped, as Saxon giggled.

 

“Gwen, sweet Gwen, how deliciously deceitful you have grown. Did you kiss your Fat Controller with that lying mouth? I know that the freak has done a flit. The classified report of your little roll in the hay with the 456 is in on the screen in front of me as we speak. A real page-turner, I can tell you. It would take a heart of stone to read it without laughing.

 

“It’s good, isn’t it? Elvis has most definitely left the building. So tell me, Gwen Cooper: if you were me, would you be worried about his groupie?”

 

“I’m not you, Harold.” Gwen straightened her back. She grinned. “And that’s what’s driving you crazy, isn’t it? _I’m not you_. You can’t touch me, and you haven’t got the faintest idea why.”

 

“I have other options, Gwen. Your little bolthole boasts some intriguing safeguards, I admit. But you can’t delude yourself that they’ll hold for long. And when they fail... oh Gwen, what times we’ll have! You can’t imagine how your pretty eyes glow, when the fires of worship make them shine. That’s what’s coming, Gwen. I will capture you; I will break you; and, in two shakes of a gnat’s tail, you will _beg_ your Master for the privilege of tearing Handsome Jack’s throat out with your teeth.

 

“And all of this I _know_ , Gwen Cooper. I know because that’s exactly what happened last time. Ciao for now.”

 

The line was dead. Gwen closed her eyes, and took a steadying breath. He’s rattled. I have an edge, even if it’s only a tiny piece of one, and edges are where you start when you’re solving a puzzle. Why...

 

This was when Gwen Cooper heard the knock.

 

It wasn’t at the door. In her initial disorientation, Gwen assumed it was, and trained her sidearm on the Hub’s entrance. But the second, louder knock dismissed that fear, to replace it with a new and shinier one. The knocks had come from further inside the Hub.

 

The third knock confirmed Gwen’s suspicions. The origin of the noises was the Morgue. Contingent force-fields had ensured the survival of all the lockers from the first Hub. Even that murderous little shit Gray still slumbered on in cryogenic contentment, while better men and women fought and died in the world above him.

 

The fourth knock sounded more akin to a splintering. Gwen picked up the pace as she hurried through the building, gun still in hand. From the Morgue’s entrance, she could see that one of the lockers had been burst asunder. She didn’t even have to think to know whose it was.  Gwen’s mouth dropped open.

 

“Oh, bloody Hell. Not ag...”

 

3\. Enemy Mine.

 

The theory that Suzie Costello might now be a ghost, never exactly compelling, had been decisively refuted by that last uppercut.

 

Gwen tottered backwards, straining to snap the room back into focus. The knuckles of Suzie’s fists were already discoloured. Hypostasis? Or genuine blood-flow? Their heads clashed as Suzie pressed her advantage. When Gwen pulled free, at the price of a painful left to the jaw (not the stomach, please God not the stomach, even if the head shots hurt so much...), she could see crimson beginning to blazon her enemy’s temple. Proper bleeding. Not a zombie.

 

 _Great strategy, sweetheart._ The voice in Gwen’s head sounded a lot like Rhys. _By the time she’s done kicking your arse, you’ll know for ruddy certain what she is._  

 

Gwen continued to retreat. Suzie advanced too fast (over-confident – but from the way this fight had been going, who could blame her?) and received a glancing blow to the abdomen in recompense. Her gasp was music to Gwen’s ears. Breath to take away. She can be hurt. She can be beaten. 

 

But she’s strong and quick. I’m already groggy.

 

“You can’t win, Gwen. There’s no move Jack taught you that he didn’t teach me first.”

 

It’s not just that she has the strength to squander on saying something like that right now. She has to wear an ironic little _smirk_ when she does. Fantastic. The world is ending; the sky is falling; and I have a hipster nemesis.

 

A nemesis, though, who doesn’t know something quite important.

 

Awesome is communicable. But it isn’t particularly contagious. This was a problem that the last commander of Torchwood Three had never substantively addressed. Jack’s fighting style worked very well for Jack. He liked speed, and theatrics, and risky finishes. But the patient accumulation of advantage was beyond him, because the man whose body would endure when the Alps were dust had the attention span of a six year old on a sugar high. Moves that were devastating on a burly immortal were nowhere near as scary when ported to an eminently breakable Welshwoman with a serviceable right hook but not much in the way of mass to back it up. And so Gwen – seeing her own inadequacies whichever way she looked, in the dark days after Tosh and Owen – had taken up sparring with an ex-UNIT freelancer to do something about them. 

 

Suzie switched smoothly from punches to holds, slamming Gwen bodily against the lockers. Classic Jack, but no way to finish someone if you lacked the size and power of Captain Harkness. When Gwen had tried that move on Martha (who left her smile and sunny disposition stacked neatly beside her shoes when she was sparring – three rounds on the mat with Dr. Jones could make a girl nostalgic for wrestling Weevils), the smaller woman had gritted her teeth against the impact (like this), hooked an ankle (like this), and sent them both sprawling to the floor (like, thank God, this).

 

Groundwork now, and this was chancy. Legs threshed as they vied for leverage. Gwen, who had landed on top, prayed that her position would offset Suzie’s advantage in the way of seemingly bloody endless sinewy limbs. Sweat and formaldehyde in her nostrils brought a sudden, sharp memory of Owen. That was wrong on more levels than a chocolate skyscraper.

 

“Getting... weak, Gwen?” Well, well. Cruella is actually starting to sound a little breathless. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.. how this works? Every second... transfers more of your strength to me.”

 

“Nice... try.” Gwen scowled, wishing she had three arms. Not impossible, physiologically – she had seen it. “We both know... this is different, Suzie. Last time, Jack filled you... more full of lead than Lois Lane’s knicker drawer. Now there’s not a mark on you I didn’t put there.”

 

“Jack... hmm...” Suzie craned her neck back, and addressed the ceiling. “Are you getting a kick out of this, Harkness? Watching your girls wrestle on CCTV, until you deign to billow in and save the day?”

 

“Jack’s gone, Suzie.”

 

“What?” Suzie’s puzzlement looked, for what that was worth, entirely genuine. “But... Torchwood...”

 

“THERE IS NO FUCKING TORCHWOOD.” Turns out I have breath to spare, as well. “There’s just me.”

 

Suzie did not relinquish her grip, but stopped struggling. Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, Gwen Cooper?”

 

Gwen bowed her head, and reached a decision. “You’ve a choice to make here, Suzie. We can go back to beating the snot out of each other, until one of us is too hurt or spent to carry on. Might be me. But it might be you. I’m not quite such a pushover, when you haven’t played Pass the Mortality Parcel with me first. And even if you win in this room, that’s not going to solve your bigger problem.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“In a moment, I’ll get up. Then, I’ll secure the gun I dropped when you jumped me. Then, I’ll tell you what’s going on. Agreed?”

 

Gwen watched Suzie’s jaw clench, but knew that she had already won. Can’t ever bear to be in the dark, can you, Ms. Costello? Suzie relaxed her grip.

 

Gwen rose, trying not to stagger more than was non-negotiable. As she slipped the gun into her belt, she contemplated the lockers. Did it work on the dead, as well? Only one way to find out. He couldn’t turn corpses into _live_ copies, at least. She would already know about it, if he could.

 

Gwen selected a locker, and slid it open. Suzie frowned at what was thus revealed.

 

“Alright, Gwen. I’ll bite. Why is the corpse of the Secretary of State for Defence lying in Harriet Derbyshire’s final resting place?”

 

Gwen sighed. “You might want to find a chair for this.” She remembered the back of Suzie’s skull smacking into the tiles, and brightened a little. “Actually, scratch that. As you were.”

 

4\.  The Gentle Art of Making Enemies.

 

Suzie did not faint. But that had always been a long shot. As Gwen’s narrative lengthened, they repaired to the med bay.

 

An odd, halting intimacy informed what followed. Each woman wanted to field-dress her wounds; neither was eager to uncover how much hurt the other had successfully unloaded. This made for many darting glances, and awkward arabesques of clothes and bandages. Gwen was incongruously reminded of wriggling into her swimming cosie under a towel on the seaweed-blackened beaches of her childhood.

 

The adrenaline high of the battle was a peak receding rapidly in the distance. Bruises on Gwen’s throbbing jaw and cheek had already turned the colour of burnt pizza; a wet trickle sauntered down the exact stretch of her abraded back that she could not reach unaided with swabs or lotion. And, because the bladder of a pregnant woman knows no apocalyptic decorum, she also felt a pressing urge to pee.

 

Fighting fit to save the world, then. Gwen looked up at the end of her story, and met Suzie’s gaze. The serial ex-corpse had raided an equipment locker _en route_ to the med bay for serviceable clothes in about her size. The threads she had been meant to take with her into Eternity hadn’t been that practical for walking around.

 

“So... here we are.”

 

Suzie’s expression was unreadable. “Yes. Here, indeed, we are.”

 

Just a shade of emphasis on that pronoun. Gwen frowned.

 

“Just to be clear... I’m under no illusions about you, Suzie. I knowthat by now you’ve already formulated three different plans to sell me out to Saxon.”

 

“Five, actually. My favourite is the one with the electrodes.”

 

“Uh-huh. I bet they’re all subtle, and devious, and absolute bloody genius in their conception. You are stone-cold brilliant, Suzie Costello. When you’re not just stone-cold. But you know what? I’m not bothered about any of them. Because he’s never going to want me as much as he’d want you.”

 

Gwen moved closer to Suzie, still holding her gaze.“You came back from the dead, Suzie. People who manage that are catnip to Saxon. He calls them ‘freaks’. Now, me – I’m laughing if we get caught. He’ll just torture, rape, brainwash, and murder _me_. But what he’ll do to you would make a Dalek weep.”

 

“I see. So what’s _your_ plan, Commander Cooper?”

 

Gwen bit her lip. Suzie chuckled.

 

“You don’t have one, do you? Poor Gwen Cooper – still the little girl lost in the woods. Ianto could have found something in our vaults to fight the Time Lord. Toshiko could have _built_ something to do it. But you? You’re the People Person. And what earthly use is that, when one person has become all the people?”

 

“I don’t have a plan _yet_ , Suzie. Mainframe is still cracking data from Saxon’s transforming wave. Once it’s finished... well, perhaps then we’ll know why Earth is hosting the inaugural meeting of Zombie Nemeses Anonymous.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“There is one other thing you need to understand.”

 

“Really? Do te...”

 

The Harkness Wall Slam was not an efficient strategy, true enough. But Gwen couldn’t deny its definite and visceral satisfaction. She braced her forearm against Suzie’s throat.

 

“You don’t get to say those names. If you gargled holy water for a hundred years, your mouth still wouldn’t be clean enough to hold them. Ignore me on that, and the two of us are throwing down again. This time, I won’t stop before I snap your neck. We’ve already established that that would be counter-productive right now. But you and I both know I’m not really a Big Picture kind of a girl. Is that clear?”

 

“Vividly.”

 

“Good.”

 

Suzie grimaced as Gwen released her hold. “It doesn’t give me any pleasure, you know.”

 

“What doesn’t?”

 

“The fact that they died. I’m not a psychopath, Gwen.”

 

“Then you’re the world’s best ever fucking impression of one.”

 

Suzie sighed. “She was a uniquely gifted woman, even if that adhesive thing she had going for anyone who showed her the slightest bit of attention would only be a good quality in a fridge magnet. And he... he had hidden depths. They weren’t as hidden or as deep as he thought they were – I take it Jack finally found out about the girlfriend? – but that’s true of almost everyone.”

 

“He was a big fan of yours, as well. Who do you think put the padlock on your coffin?”

 

 “Good for him. Anyway, I’d trade either of them in a heartbeat for a tedious little narcissist who’s mistaken a run of dumb luck for competence, thinks the only people with emotions are those that don’t control them, and inexplicably fails to die, an impotent bystander, while all the world around her turns to shit. No wonder Jack took such a shine to you, Gwen. It must have been like looking in a mirror.”

 

“Maybe. But I have it from a reliable source that I’m better than you.”

 

Suzie snorted. “How long has it been since I said that to you? A year? Two? Time flies when you’re dead. And you still haven’t worked out what I actually meant.”

 

“Which was...?”

 

“You do what I did better than me, Gwen Cooper. Destroy Jack. I thought that I was good, but you.... You’re a wrecking-ball, Gwen. You brought him to his _knees_. Three years of you, and he fled the planet.”

 

Suzie looked down at Gwen’s clenched hands, and smiled. “So, then. Round Two?”

 

The telephone rang out, loud in the sudden silence. Gwen exhaled.

 

“Not just yet, Suzie. Time for another helping of our Master’s voice.”

5\. The Invisible Enemy.

 

“Two calls in one night, Harold?” Gwen pointed Suzie in the direction of a headset. It had speakers, but no microphone. She really did not want Suzie talking to Saxon. “People will say we’re in love.”

 

“You know me, Gwen. All hearts. I wouldn’t want you to feel lonely during your last few hours in Foster’s Home for Imaginary Heroes.”

 

“Much appreciated, Harold. Since you’re telling me that down the ‘phone, and not in person, you’ve obviously done your usual bang-up job of disabling my defences. Bravo, that man. Keep up the good work.”

 

 “I don’t need to be anywhere near you, Gwen.”

 

“Really? Pity. I was sort of hoping that you’d roll up at my front door, cunningly disguised as a vicar. Or would that be a shade too Seventies?”

 

“As I said: no need. I already have a man on the inside.”

 

Gwen’s head snapped round. Suzie’s eyes were darting over the entrances to the command centre. Just what you would expect to see from someone looking for a mole. But a mole as smart as Suzie would know to do that.

 

“Is that right, Harold?” Gwen fought to keep her tone breezy, unconcerned. “You must recommend me to your tailor. I could do with an Invisibility Cloak.”

 

“Oh, Gwen. Feisty Gwen. Gutsy Gwen. Pregnant Gwen. Did you think that your little immunity trick would extend to what’s growing inside you?”

 

Gwen gulped back the bile that burned her throat. Somewhere beyond the rushing in her ears, he was still speaking. “So quiet, all of a sudden? Come on! Feed your Madonna fantasies, Gwen. Every woman secretly wants to carry the Lord of Creation in her belly. I’m just helping you live the dream.”

 

 _Say something. Anything. Guns and tech are just the window-dressing. What I am, what I’ve always been, is a mouth on legs._

 

 _He’s taken my only talent away from me. That, and so much more._

 

“... Honestly, when I think of all the favours I’ve done you bunch of ingrates. My old friend’s wrong about humanity, you see. He believes you’re this groovy gang of anarchists. I know better.

 

“The 456 are the joke of half the galaxy. They’re the cosmic equivalent of that shuffling old man you see on the street, who dribbles in his beard while he pulls a mangy dog along on a string. But when those calamari junkies fetched up here with their threadbare parlour tricks of fire and fog, you lot rolled over and begged. Earth needs its Master. When it doesn’t have one, it goes looking.”

 

“I’m going to kill you, Saxon.” _Was it like this for Jack? Could he hear the echoes bouncing inside his threats?_ “With my own two hands, if that’s what it takes. But I will kill you.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. Smart girl like you can always rustle up a knitting-needle from somewhere. I wouldn’t dawdle, though. They grow so fast, don’t they? We’ll speak again, Gwen. Very soon.”

 

“Well, you handled him brilliantly,” said Suzie, as Gwen – on her second try – replaced the receiver. “Saxon wasn’t at all like that as an MP. He’s making me regret I never voted.”

 

“Thanks a bunch, Suzie.” Gwen dropped her head into her hands. “Just the tower of strength that I expected.”

 

“I didn’t realize you were pregnant. Congratulations. I really should have thrown more body punches.”

 

“I’m touched.” Gwen looked up through her interlaced fingers. “Do you think he’s telling the truth, Suzie? Don’t bullshit me here.”

 

“Probably. Who knows? Think of it like this: if we win, we may be able to turn them back. If we lose, your child is dead anyway.”

 

“Thank you, Suzie. That’s the closest you’ve ever been to reassuring.”

 

“So, apart from turning you green at the gills – which is a film I’ve already seen – what exactly did taking that call achieve?”

 

“I’m giving him rope. No one, human or Time Lord, can talk as much as he does without eventually saying something he’ll regret. My old desk sergeant taught me that.”

 

“Quaint. So, what did PC Cooper glean?”

 

“Two things. We’re not the main target of his concern. If we were, he’d already have popped up in person and stormed the Hub. But he also knows that something changed here after my first conversation with him. He was trying to goad me into spilling what that was.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Exactly. I’m guessing your latest return had some kind of anomalous energy signature, which seeped out through the Hub’s screens and tipped off Saxon. If we can work out what happened there, we might be closer to knowing why you’re alive, and I’m still me.”

 

“Easier said than done. I looked at the outputs while you were talking. Your new Mainframe is a shadow of the old. It’s not making much headway with the wave analysis.”

 

“Damn. That’s us scuppered. It’s not as though we can find any more processing pow... Wait a minute. I think that I may have an idea.”

 

***

 

“An attic.” Suzie peered at the monitor. “Your plan is someone else’s empty attic.”

 

“Yes; it is.” Gwen frowned. “The ‘empty’ part’s what’s bothering me. If the Hub falls, the Earth’s in trouble. But if the place on this screen falls, the Earth is fucked.”

 

“An attic? Truly?”

 

“Think of it more as Ali Baba’s cave. You just have to know the magic words.” Gwen leaned towards the VDU, and raised her voice: “Mr. Smith? I need you.”

 

Gwen took care to watch Suzie’s face as she saw what was unfolding on the screen. Bright spots had been few and far between, this Christmas. “I take it from your expression that Jack never told you about Sarah Jane Smith?”

 

“No. That’s... annoying.”

 

“He wouldn’t have had much to tell, before you died. We only made proper contact with her after that time the Earth got nicked. Even now, she’s leery of dealing overmuch with the Hub. Maybe she has some crazy idea that if she lets Torchwood in, it’ll swallow her life, and spit out everything she cares about dead or broken. Sarah Jane’s a lot smarter than we ever were.”

 

“Hello, Gwen.” Mr. Smith sounded calm, but that was hardly a surprise. “How may I be of assistance?”

 

“Hello, Mr. Smith. I’m guessing from the lack of activity around you that the shi...” Gwen hazily wondered whether the alien AI had some kind of child-lock, which would shut him down if she bandied swear-words around him. Sarah Jane brought her kids up very carefully. “... that the situation is bad at Bannerman Road.”

 

“You are correct, Gwen. Sarah Jane, Rani, and Clyde have all been transformed into facsimiles of Harold Saxon.”

 

Gwen winced. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Smith. Have they tried to get back into the house?”

 

“Yes. The interior defences have maintained their integrity so far. My sensors indicate that the nearest Saxon is currently modifying Sarah Jane’s lipstick to incorporate laser capability.”

 

“Uh-huh.” _Laser lipstick? Bit chancy for my taste. One false twiddle, and you’ve put a hole through the back of your own head. Typical bloke – no idea how to accessorize._ “You didn’t mention Luke or K-9.” Gwen intercepted Suzie’s enquiring look. “Sarah Jane’s son, and a robot dog – long story. What’s their status?”

 

“Luke was not transformed. He conjectures that his status as the Archetype afforded him protection from the change. I detected an eruption of artron energy in Chiswick; Luke and K-9 have gone to investigate.”

 

“Good luck to them. Looks like Harold hasn’t exactly been on the level about how smoothly his plan is going. Mr. Smith... can you still exchange data freely with the Hub?”

 

“At present, yes. This situation will not necessarily persist, however. Even my encryption would not withstand a Time Lord’s undivided attention.”

 

“A little while is all we need. I’m sending you the data we’ve gathered about the transforming wave and related phenomena. Can you let me know if they chime with anything in either of our archives?”

 

“Of course, Gwen.”

 

“Thank you.” Gwen turned away from the screen, rubbing her hands. “Looks like we’re not as alone in the world as we thought, Suzie.”

 

“Yes. I feel so reassured to know that One Boy and his Dog are in our corner.”

 

“The boy’s a bio-engineered super-genius. Whole Sontaran squadrons shit themselves at the idea of tangling with the dog. I fancy the chances of that pair a whole lot more than I fancy ours. Might as well put your feet up, Suzie. There’s not much we can do for a while but wait.”

 

6\. Enemy at the Gates.

 

“What’s this?” asked Suzie.

 

Gwen squinted at the intricate black metal mesh in Suzie’s hands. “That’s an alien mnemonic device, like an Incan _Quipu_. Or a sex toy. Or a mnemonic sex toy.” She flushed at Suzie’s raised eyebrow. “My new R &D bloke does his best. But he isn’t Tosh.”

 

“I see. And these?”

 

“The metal disc is a telepathic alarm clock. Attuned by touch; goes ‘ping’ inside your head when it’s set off. The purple ball turns all salt water within five feet of it fluorescent green. Has to be salt water, mind. Fresh water stays the same.”

 

“‘If it’s alien, it’s ours.’” Suzie snorted. “How are the mighty fallen.”

 

Gwen opened her mouth to reply, but was forestalled by the clear tones of Mr. Smith from the VDU. “My analysis of the data is complete, Gwen.”

 

“It is? Great work, Mr. Smith. Put what you’ve got up on the screen.”

 

The two women pored over the readings. At last Suzie’s face cleared. “Ah, I see. He must have got his hands on the More Door.”

 

“The More Door?”

 

“That was what Iant... what our late archivist called it. A piece of Hipocci healing tech. Torchwood One identified the provenance, eventually, but they never managed to make the thing work. Seems like Saxon stole and repurposed it. He really is a genius.”

 

“Looking a bit flushed there, Suzie. This is no time to develop a crush on our nemesis.” Gwen’s eyes widened. “Hang on. Did you say that this device was originally healing tech?”

 

“Yes. The Hipocci...”

 

“We’ve got him.” Gwen’s colour was high, now. “I know what we can do, Suzie. _I know what we can do_.”

 

Suzie’s brow furrowed. “I don’t...”

 

The VDU hissed like water on quenched steel. The warm hues of Mr. Smith’s interface winked out. Gwen’s knuckles whitened.

 

“We’ve been made. Saxon’s hacked our connexion to Bannerman Road. Get out of the web-cam’s field of view, Suzie. The bastard doesn’t have to know you’re here.”

 

Suzie withdrew to one side. Gwen squared her shoulders; plastered a smile across her face; and turned back to the screen.

 

“Hello again, Harold.”

 

“Hello, mum. Oh, sorry; jumping the gun a bit, there.” Saxon’s eyes raked across her bruised countenance. “Blunt trauma’s being worn high this season, I see. Me like.”

 

“I aim to please.”

 

 “You’ve almost managed to impress me, Gwen. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you to set up a link with that wrinkly hack’s AI. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll have trouble running _Pong_. But that’s fun for the future.”

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure this time, Harold? Or did you just want to show me your new bleach job?”

 

“I’m calling to say goodbye, Gwen. Because this...”

 

The lights of the Hub dimmed, and brightened again.

 

“... is the beginning of your end. I just fricasseed the Hub’s exterior force-field. Not so very hard: a riff of quantum enharmonic resonance. But I don’t like to bore people with technicalities. I much prefer to do that with power-tools.

 

“Which means, Gwen Cooper, that pretty soon you’ll be going the way of your ancestors. That simpering Victorian slavey, for example, the one my old friend majestically failed to save. Didn’t think I knew about her, did you? I keep a list, a very long list, of all the people he’s let down. How she got that psychic, I have no idea; your tiny brains aren’t built to stand it. You can’t imagine the discomfort involved in squeezing me into your cerebral architecture.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen – well, just gentlemen now, actually – I give you: the House of Cooper. The Fail that kept on failing, right to the end of the line. Not like that. Just like that.”

 

The image on the screen blinked out.

 

“I’ve cut all the security feeds, just in case,” said Suzie, advancing from the other side of the room. “Now, tell me what you have in mind.”

 

Gwen darted to a wall locker; rummaged inside it for a moment; and then brought out a blue, many-faceted gem, set into a mass of wires and metal. “Recognize this?”

 

“An Umbral Juridicinth.”

 

“Exactly. The Traffic Cones Hot-Line of the Shadow Proclamation. When it’s activated, everyone close to it immediately travels by trans-mat to the Proclamation’s nearest outpost.”

 

“Yes. And if you can’t present a legitimate grievance once you’re there, they zap you straight back to where you started. No use to us.”

 

“We _do_ have a legitimate grievance, Suzie.” Gwen’s smile was fierce. “Convention Three of the Shadow Proclamation...”

 

“... forbids the perversion or destruction of healing tech. Intergalactic _Médecins Sans Frontières._ I see. That’s really quite clever. Do you truly believe that those sidereal doughnut-eaters would want to mess with the Time Lord, though? They weren’t eager to do that last time, from what you’ve told me.”

 

“I know. But it gets us off-planet, with the chance to gather resources.”

 

“So it does. But there’s a problem.”

 

Gwen’s face fell. “Yes. That kind of trans-mat is temperamental around the Rift. We need to get somewhere high to deploy the Juridicinth. And between us and the nearest hill...”

 

“... lies the Saxon Conquest. Yes.” Suzie smirked. “I have an idea as to what we can do about that.”

 

Gwen looked sceptical. “You do?”

 

“Oh yes. PC Cooper was right, after all. Anyone that talks for long enough, eventually says something he’ll regret.”

 

***

 

Gwen stepped out of the front door, gun at the ready. Not a Saxonette in view. That would change. Gwen filled her lungs.

 

“SAXON! I know at least one of you is there. Come out into the open. I...” Gwen moistened her lips, and pressed on. “...I want to cut a deal.”

 

“Mmmm.” His voice issued from the mouth of the nearest alley. Gwen wheeled to cover it with her gun. “If you want me to come out, Gwen Cooper, then you’re going to have to call me by my name.”

 

“I want to cut a deal...” Gwen winced, and spat it out: “... _Master_.”

 

“See? How hard was that?”

 

Gwen’s stomach turned as he emerged into the light of the streetlamp. She couldn’t fault Saxon’s attention to detail. This one was dressed as a policeman. Might he even have been Andy? Andy’s build wasn’t far off the Master’s. She swallowed.

 

“Oi! No closer.”

 

Saxon stopped as she waved her gun, then grinned back at her. “Or what? Are you planning to shoot me, Gwen? There’s plenty more where I came from.”

 

“That’s as may be. But Saxon of Dock Green here will still be dead, won’t he? I don’t pretend to understand how this Mini-Me thing of yours works identity-wise, Harold. It’s not like I have a background in philosophy. What I do have is a background in shooting aliens in the head, and a lot of bullets. So for now, this particular you might want to stay put.”

 

“As you wish. I’m curious to hear your pitch. Your Hub has fallen, Gwen. What can you offer me that I can’t just take from you?”

 

“My free will.”

 

Saxon cocked his head on one side. “Explain.”

 

“I know that you can break me under torture, Harold. But that’s banal. Imagine if you could look your old friend in the eye and tell him truthfully how the last free human being just... gave up. Hell, you can even record it if you want. You wouldn’t just have conquered then, Harold. You’d have _won_.”

 

“Last _free_ human, you say.” Saxon’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your price, Gwen? I think that I can guess.”

 

“My child. I want you to turn her back to what she was. I want her to come to term, and I want your undertaking that as long as she lives, you won’t touch a hair on her head. Keep her in a gilded cage if that’s your fancy. Tell her that her mother...” Gwen’s voice faltered, “... that her mother was a quisling and a coward. But let her live.”

 

“I underestimated you, Gwen Cooper. You have the most exquisite talent for humiliation.”

 

Gwen’s lips tightened. “I’ve known Jack Harkness, Master. That came as standard.”

 

“Then, we have a deal.” Saxon smiled. “Put down the gun, and follow me.”

 

Gwen nodded. She lowered her firearm...

 

...and he was beside her, swift as the snake she vaguely remembered he had once been. Slender, obscenely powerful fingers crushed her wrist, until the gun fell from her hand.

 

“Poor, trusting Gwen. Still a sucker for a man in uniform. I won’t deny your deal has its attractions. But did you really think it could ever compete with the pleasure of watching as I split you open from inside?”

 

“Of course I didn’t, you predictable scrote.” Gwen clenched her teeth against the pain in her arm. “All that spiel was to get you where I wanted.”

 

“Get me where you wanted? Get _me_ where _you_ wanted?” His breath brushed warm against her cheek. “This world is mine, little girl. We are the Master, and you will obey me.”

 

“Is that so? Well, I’m Gwen Elizabeth Cooper.” Gwen’s other hand lashed out. Saxon looked down in puzzlement at the metal disc she had slapped against his wrist.“And I can shout just as loud as you can.”

 

The disc...

 

Pealed.

 

7\. The Last Enemy.

 

 _“The alarm clock? How’s that ever going to take him out of action, Suzie? I’ve tested that widget myself. All you get from it is a little ‘ping’ inside your head.”_

 

 _“That’s what’s meant to happen. But_ you _have – at most – one brain._ ”

 

Saxon staggered backwards, clutching his skull. Gwen retrieved her gun and backed off, less than eager to stay within the reach of those flailing arms.

 

 _“All the brains out there in Cardiff right now are Saxon’s, Gwen. They probably share some of a Time Lord’s psychic sensitivity. What I’m gambling they don’t have is a Time Lord’s defences. The original cerebral script that he overwrote was human, remember. Like he said: our tiny brains aren’t built to stand it.”_

 

Saxon was on his knees, now, his eyes squeezed shut. Gwen halted her retreat, watching closely.

 

 _“He isn’t exactly a hive-mind; you’ve made that clear. But the same slightly psychic brain, iterated over and over across the city... That’ll resonate, Gwen. The signal will propagate, jumping from Saxon to Saxon, getting ever louder as it does. He’s turned himself into history’s biggest psionic amplifier. Drums in his head, you say? Well, let’s give him the rest of the percussion.”_

 

Saxon keeled over.

 

Gwen approached him, wary as a fawn. Careful prodding with her boot, while she kept her weapon pointed at his head, eventually reassured her that he was unconscious. Satisfied, she pulled the earpiece out of her pocket, and put it on.

 

“Suzie? It’s Gwen. The one that I can see passed out alright. Any intel on whether it worked throughout the city?”

 

“That’s not straightforward to judge, but I think so. There’s massive disruption in the networks of the Cardiff area, and it looks as though the rest of the world has noticed.”

 

“Didn’t manage to knock out the whole planet, though?”

 

“That was never likely, Gwen. The signal won’t propagate where there aren’t enough Saxons in close proximity. The rural areas were his firewall.”

 

“Bugger. I never did like the countryside. Time for us to motor, then. It won’t take Head Office long to work out what we did.”

 

Suzie emerged from the Hub, holding a bag in one hand and a blocky pistol in the other. Gwen looked thoughtfully at the sidearm.

 

“A Jorsabri Peacebringer, Suzie? That’s not exactly a subtle girl’s weapon.”

 

“We just knocked out several million Saxons. I think the time for subtlety is past.”

 

“Fair point. While it pains me to feed your ever-ravenous ego, Suzie, that was one hell of a plan.”

 

“Grudging credit where it’s due: the whole ‘spare my child’ routine you cooked up was something special. I almost wept. Truly. There was moisture. Who would have thought that being the ‘heart of Torchwood’ was actually good for something?”

 

Gwen snorted. “Don’t tell me that you still haven’t worked out what that means.”

 

“Enlighten me.”

 

“The heart’s got nothing to do with love, or compassion, or sympathy, Suzie. Those are the property of the brain. The heart’s a pump. All it does – all I do – is keep things going. So saddle up.”

 

***

 

It took some time to reach an appropriate elevation. The crusted wounds on Gwen’s back wetly reminded her of their presence; her hand stole to her stomach when she thought that Suzie was not watching. The euphoria from felling that many Masters could only carry one so far. Suzie, who was running an old tricorder-thing of Tosh’s over the area, looked puzzled.

 

“What’s up?” Gwen called out. “Isn’t it safe to trans-mat from here?”

 

“This is a little troubling. I’m detecting some odd background radiation, which seems to be growing. Fast.”

 

Gwen scratched her head. “Rift trouble? Saxon’s japes can’t have been good for its digestion.”

 

“I don’t think so. The radiation I’m picking up looks new. It appears to have been moving around.”

 

“Strange. Rift spikes are usually more static.”

 

“Gwen...”

 

“Yes?”

 

“According to my readings, the source of the energies is you. And me.”

 

“What? That can’t be ri...”

 

And then Gwen Cooper’s world dissolved in fire.

 

In the terror of that first moment, she thought that Saxon had pitched Cardiff into the flames for her presumption. ( _Martha talking about what she had seen him do to Japan. Half a bottle of whisky before she spoke of that; the other half before she could make herself stop.)_ A second masquerading as a century passed before Gwen realized that the golden fire which limned her body was not consuming her.

 

Twenty feet away, Suzie, too, blazed like a beacon. As Gwen’s eyes locked with the other woman’s, an arc of flame carved the air between them. Both collapsed, as the fires around them died.

 

“That,” said Gwen, scrambling to her feet, “was unacceptably _Ghostbusters_. What the hell just happened?” Her eyes widened. “And who the hell is he?”

 

The two women were no longer alone on the hilltop.

 

A tall, slender figure stood, equidistant between Suzie and Gwen, in front of what looked like a shadowy hole ripped in the air. The figure was dressed as a harlequin. More or less. Gwen did not know much about the _Commedia dell’arte_. But she was pretty sure that harlequins did not usually have empty scabbards strapped to their backs.

 

The harlequin turned to Gwen. There was a smile on its mask. Gwen was morally certain that the expression had been blank a second earlier.

 

“Glove puppets, hail.” The harlequin’s voice was high and lilting. “The Duke of Never owes a debt to those who gave his liege this gift.”

 

“Gift?” Gwen frowned at the harlequin. She could see Suzie’s expression behind its shoulder. What she found there almost stopped her heart.

 

Suzie looked terrified.

 

“The smallest, greatest gift a King could wish. Another moment.”

 

Gwen licked her dry lips. “Who is this bloke, Suzie? Why is is he here?”

 

Suzie swallowed. “A forgotten legend. I read about the likes of him in books that Jack kept locked away in the furthest corners of the Hub. Bestiaries of the Last Great Time War. He’s a vanguard, Gwen. A vanguard for the Could-Have-Been King.”

 

“Bad?”

 

“Worse than either of us could imagine.”

 

“All I needed to know,” said Gwen, who opened fire.

 

The harlequin stood motionless, head cocked to one side, until she ran out of bullets.

 

“A timeling cannot kill what never was. Sooner attempt to whet a number’s edge, or move the legislation of a dream. The spawn of Skaro learned that lesson well, until the Lords-a-Leaping turned away, and lost their stomach for the meal they cooked.”

 

“The Time Lords built a counter-factual army,” Suzie hissed, “but they lost control over it. Monsters that never existed. Weapons that never were.”

 

The harlequin bent its mask towards her. “The puppet speaks the truth. Regard my blade.”

 

“You don’t... oh.” Gwen realized that the harlequin’s scabbard was no longer empty.

 

“This sword would have been known as _Hart’s Desire._ ” The harlequin tapped the hilt at its back.“The finest weapon never made on Earth. The savant Sato forged it for her lord, a Torchwood Warmaster, in energies she wrested from the grip of Omega.”

 

Gwen paled. “Tosh would never have made a weapon like that.”

 

“His point exactly.” Suzie rolled her eyes. “Do try to keep up, Gwen.”

 

“So... You’re the spearhead of an unstoppable army, created and abandoned by a dead race of mad gods, that gets off on curb-stomping Daleks. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you all learned the error of your ways and decided to take up flower-arranging while you were stuck in the Time Lock?”

 

The mask smiled back at her. Gwen thought that she could see shapes moving inside the shadowed door beyond the harlequin.

 

“That’s what I thought. Um... I don’t suppose you have a plan, Suzie?”

 

“When will you learn, Gwen Cooper? There’s always a plan.”

 

Suzie raised her Peacebringer. Violet light flashed from its barrel, as she shot Gwen in the chest.

 

***

 

Suzie stared at the huddled figure on the ground for a few seconds, then turned to the harlequin.

 

“I’m very glad that you were here to watch. Only something that’s been stuck in a Time Lock can fully appreciate how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” Suzie shook her head. “Poor Gwen Cooper. No matter how many times I double-crossed her, it always came as a surprise. Her gullibility was like a guinea pig’s hymen. Infinitely self-repairing.”

 

The harlequin looked at Suzie. Its smile had not changed.

 

“I want to show you something, Duke. Humour me on this. Like you said: your army owes me. ‘Glove puppet’... that was your phrase, I think? Very clever plan you all cooked up. Dropping your Gallifreyan gloves into the Vortex before the Moment clamped down around you. Hoping that the lure of permanent resurrection would tempt people to make themselves your tether to the Universe, unawares. That was what Gwen and I shared, of course: the Gloves. Same goes for that Martha woman of hers. Poor Owen was completely disintegrated; I suppose even that tech couldn’t bring him back this time.” Suzie frowned. “What I don’t quite see is why the plan triggered now. I assume that something Saxon is doing has already weakened the Time Lock?”  

 

The harlequin inclined its head.

 

“Suit yourself. Anyway, I want you to see this.”

 

Suzie pointed out over Cardiff. The harlequin turned its blank eye-sockets in the direction of her finger.

 

“Look at this world, Duke. You may think that it’s a bauble. A pretty toy to detain you before your host swarms across Creation. I’m here to tell you that it isn’t. This world is....”

 

Suzie paused, as if groping for a word.

 

“... shit. Putrescent. It has no redeeming features. But looking at my world like this does serve one important purpose, Duke of Never.”

 

The harlequin stumbled forward. Its hand felt for its scabbard, which was empty. Then it stared down at the crackling spike which had just sprouted from its chest.

 

“It means you’re not looking at Gwen Cooper.” Suzie smiled. “Could-Have-Been weapons can kill you just fine, can’t they?”

 

“Hello again, your Grace.” Gwen grinned savagely at the harlequin’s shoulder. She gave the sword another push. “Or your Reverence, or whatever. Title or not, the ones who cop sentry duty are always morons. Chinless wonders. Makes me glad that I’m so common.”

 

The harlequin twisted its mask in her direction. Three rubies glistened on its cheek. The harlequin, and the sword, disappeared.

 

The shadowy door wavered, for a moment, and followed suit.

 

 Epilogue.

 

“Setting Two.” Gwen rubbed her neck, and winced. “Why did you set your Peacebringer to Setting Two? Setting One would have been enough to knock me off my feet convincingly. It’s not like his Lordship was the sharpest tool in the could-have-been box.”

 

“True. But Setting One wouldn’t have hurt half as much.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

“Always.”

 

Gwen brought her knees up to her chest. The two women were sitting on the hilltop, back to back. “Do you think that Martha’s OK?”

 

“I think that being by herself would have protected her. We were the only two puppets in close enough proximity to open the gate. Once we killed the vanguard, the Time Lock sealed up again just fine.”

 

“Frying our Juridicinth in the process.”

 

“Sadly, yes.”

 

“Arse. We meant to save the world. But we only managed to save the Universe. How soon do you think the Saxonettes will rise and shine?”

 

“Soon enough. That’s a problem you’ll have to sort out by yourself, Gwen.”

 

“The fact the King’s plan failed doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re going to die again, you know.”

 

“Do you really believe that, Gwen?”

 

“No,” Gwen admitted. “No, I don’t.”

 

A not entirely uncompanionable silence fell. Suzie sighed.

 

“Go ahead. Ask.”

 

Gwen started. “What do you mean?”

 

“Don’t pretend you’re not dying to find out. Pun intended. You always have to _know_ , whatever the cost. It’s the only halfway likeable trait you have.”

 

“Alright, then. Why didn’t you just kill me and let the King and his host march straight out of the Lock? You’re far too smart to imagine that you could have cut a deal with them. But if Suzie Costello’s going down in flames, then why not take the rest of the Universe with her?”

 

Suzie shrugged. “A number of reasons, I suppose. This world is worthless, of course. I know that you don’t think so, Gwen; you’re sentimental, and only intermittently all that bright. It’s still dross. But I can’t exclude the possibility that there’s something out there worth saving.”

 

“Such a Pollyanna.”

 

“Also, the King played me. That’s not a pattern of behaviour I encourage. And, well, I’ve died a villain twice already. It was starting to become a trifle samey.”

 

“That almost made sense. You must punch harder than I gave you credit for.”

 

“Have you ever read Oscar Wilde, Gwen?”

 

“Can’t say as I have, Suzie. Too busy remembering not to be a serial killer.”

 

“‘The Nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, is a purely literary product.’”

 

“Confirmation that reading rots the brain. I...”

 

Gwen’s earpiece squawked into life. She listened with mounting elation, before standing up to speak in return. Suzie lay back on the hilltop. She watched Gwen walking to and fro through lidded eyes.

 

“Good news?”

 

“That was my team. They’re back to normal. Saxon’s fallen.”

 

“Bigger people sorted things out again. Probably Jack’s Doctor. Hooray. I hope it hurt.” Suzie sighed, more softly this time. “But I would have liked to see inside that box.”

 

Gwen knelt by her side. “You’re fading, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes. Doesn’t feel... so hard this time. Must... be all that practice.”

 

“You said to me once that there are things waiting for you in the dark. Terrible things.”

 

“Yes. I did.”

 

“Suzie?”

 

“Yes, Gwen?”

 

“I bet those things are wetting themselves right now about who’s moving back to the neighbourhood.”

 

Suzie chuckled for a little while. Then she fell silent. Gwen leaned over, and shut the eyes.

 

“Until the next time, Suzie Costello.”

 

Gwen was still kneeling when the mobile ‘phone sounded in her pocket.

 

“Rhys? Rhys! Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. No – you’re right. It _was_ aliens. But I...” Gwen looked down for a moment, and continued, “but we helped to sort that out. Headache? No, um, that wasn’t all down to the aliens, I’m afraid. And we need to talk about the vase your mother gave us....”

 

FINIS


End file.
